


Alas, So Much Of Mine (Self) Is Yours

by OverexcitedDragon



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Demon Sebastian Michaelis, Extremely Dubious Consent, Other, This is literally just self indulgent inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverexcitedDragon/pseuds/OverexcitedDragon
Summary: Sheep, meet d̴̢͚̭̼̹͔̫̖̗͉̒̾͐̆́͛̑o̵͔̠͈͔̔̄͛̈́̚g̵͕̪̠̲̮͔͖̺̿͋̾͝.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	Alas, So Much Of Mine (Self) Is Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notsafeforworse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notsafeforworse/gifts).



> I wasn't gonna post this but my friends talked me into it. So here, eat up

The butler is perfect, but that is already quite well known. Nimble fingers that put together breathtaking flower arrangements just as swiftly as they tear through human flesh to pull out veins like thread from a spool.

Ciel… watches. It’s all he can do, really. Watches the perfect setting of a table, watches the perfect disposing of a kidnapper, watches the man like he’s a moving painting-- the demon like he’s a monster come to life. He doesn’t fail to remember the creature’s real self as he saw on That Day, a mere glimpse into a horror incomprehensible by the human mind…

And now, clipping roses in a tidy apron.

The façade is absolutely perfect, to the point where even when the demon shows its fangs, its claws, its hunger, the humans are none the wiser, merely watching the spectacle in awe.

Except for Ciel. Because he knows. The real shape of Sebastian’s distended jaw and shark-like teeth as he drools like a starving animal over Ciel’s naked body, the sharpness of those ink black claws as they dig into the aching skin of Ciel’s thighs, the length and girth of the creature’s--

And yet he mustn’t digress from his role.

Perfect little “Ciel”, poised like a doll over his perfect little throne, built on corpses and ashes. Strong, powerful, capable… and yet sickly, small, and fragile. Easy to break. Bone and flesh and insides so soft and pliable to the touch of others. To the touch of the demon.

A lie. All of it.

But Ciel knows how to lie, and he does so perfectly well. Smiles and polite handshakes, lavish dinner parties and kind donations to the poor. A powerful aristocrat, owner of splendid assets, unwavering businessman, watchdog of the Queen of England…

And no one sees the shadow looming over him.

It seems so obvious to Ciel, the massive black clad silhouette behind him, chasing after him like a shadow in every room, every corner. But the demon has a perfectly human face decorated with a perfect smile. To everyone else, Ciel has a guardian angel.

But everyone else doesn’t know what happens behind closed doors, what happens when the demon sinks its claws in Ciel’s flesh atop the bed his parents slept on, sinks its tongue in Ciel’s mouth, sinks its wet cock in Ciel’s insides-- invades his body, his mind, his _soul_.

There’s a grip around his heart every time, and it’s as if the shadow wisps that creep up over the walls found their way to the insides of Ciel’s guts and wrapped around every organ, and it’s a reminder, constant, choking, nauseating.

_Mine._

Every slimy appendage that holds Ciel down, that slides into his mouth and down his throat, that spreads his legs for the demon to slither home into the depths of the boy’s heat, is cold and unforgiving, and yet so gentle it hurts. It reminds him of the contract, of how little-- how _very little_ he thought about the ways the demon would find to add fine print to every clause.

The demon’s hunger for his young body is no lie. There’s no deception in the bestial loss of control the creature has when it tastes Ciel’s skin and insides.

There is no disobedience when the demon’s hands hold him down and take him by force, facilitated by the way Ciel’s mouth hangs open in obscene moans and groans rather than moving his lips to command the creature.

None of the actions fail to protect Ciel’s substantial self. His body is always unblemished by the end, not a crack on his mental state. The wrecked pride is merely a concept, buried in the depths of his perfectly safe chest.

And finally, there is no betrayal in gorging on meat that presents itself for butchering.

So he lies there, and he takes, the praises and touches, the fear, the pleasure. He takes it all with much more elegance and poise than he did on That Month. Even if his brain buzzes like a swarm of wasps during the whole process, even if his body responds to things he wishes would have remained a mystery.

Every time Ciel is laid upon the bed and feels the creature's lips touching his bare skin, he knows they're supposed to be soft like flowers, but his body feels it like the cold flat of a sharp knife. The fingers wrap around his ankles and wrists-- fingers at first, then shadows, a semblance of tentacles, something inhuman and crude that Ciel knows only comes when Sebastian is riled up and excited like a beast in heat-- when Sebastian is less human than he pretends to be for everyone else.

There's a special flavor of horror that washes over Ciel's trembling little heart, much like the taste of a strong wine that looked too much like grape juice in the eyes of an innocent child, and it binds his limbs and lips every time with threads of sheer anxiety and sterling fear. It doesn't hurt, it never does, Sebastian always makes sure it's pleasurable, saccharine sweet praises and touches like feathers on the boy's buzzing skin-- but the fear is still _there_ , hanging, looming, because Sebastian _isn't_ anymore, only a hollow shell of the perfectly poised and perfectly deceitful butler now filled with arousal and bestiality that drips like melting caramel and burns the boy's very soul to ash.

There are times he wonders if the creature holds thought in that gaunt face, if it knows conscience when its real shape bleeds out from the pores of the man suit.

If it remembers the contract at all.

Ciel lets himself be taken, manhandled, and filled to the brim, and through it all there’s that fear that tastes like acid when he gulps, when he looks up at the manic eyes that stare at his body, at his face, at his contract sigil with a hunger not known to man.

The fear that it won’t stop.

This creature between Sebastian and something entirely unknown, nibbling at the edges of Ciel’s soul when it takes his body like nothing but a wam hole, does it know? Does it remember? How much of it can Ciel control with a command? How much of it can Sebastian control when he’s deep inside the heat of Ciel’s body?

It’s a horror not known to man. It’s the sheep locking eyes with a starving herding dog and contemplating the importance of the dog’s job over its own hunger.

Ciel plays at owning the dog, he holds the velvety leash with an iron grip, tells it to fetch and to sit in front of guests and family, shows it off like a prized specimen. But he knows that when the carriages leave, when the doors close, when the candles gently illuminate the room awash by shadows, eyes, and teeth, pooling in the corners of his eyes like misshapen monsters, the illusion breaks.

Because the leash was never even attached.


End file.
